Ms South Freo

In a past life, Flick did admin a few days a week, but after a third-eye-opening experience at a bush doof, she was concerned that punching the clock was draining her soul battery.

Some say she was enlightened, others say she was tripping on more acid than a clumsy meth cook. Long story short, now she lives with 15 people and sleeps on a mattress on the floor.

It’s a working day, so Flick is sitting on the porch of her freeloader nest sipping her patented brand of “fair trade kombucha”. Her kombucha only uses yeast that has given her its consent to be used in the fermentation process.

Although she describes this as fair trade, labouring through a conversation about it makes slavery feel like an international holiday via a P&O Cruise.

Worried she isn’t seizing the day, she cycles her quaint blue fixie down to South Beach to slackline with the who’s who of John Butler paternity test requestees. What more can you ask for? Smoking doobies, unsupported boobies and deep discussions about the nuances of under-reporting income to Centrelink.

Life’s not all slacklining and underemployment though, Flick has to get to the South Freo Power Station to take some shots for Instagram before her yoga class in the afternoon.

It is essential to her sense of individuality that she constantly posts the same damn photos of the power station as everybody else – it’s a South Freo thing, star shine 😉

Flick swings by Manna Wholefoods to pick up her weeks worth of organic pearl couscous, lentils and goji berries. While at the store she runs into a local artist she knows.

Naturally, he is dressed like a Pirate of Cuntzance and isn’t wearing any shoes: “I really pick up on the organic aura of the food when I don’t wear shoes, sun blossom”.

She eats it up like it was a bowl of flirtatious lentils. “That is so rad, man, you should come to my yoga class this afternoon”. He scoffs, “sorry, child, I only trust one yogi with my body, ciao ciao”. What a dick.

Flick opens the windows to her yoga class, “feel the sea breeze cooling the air, that’s where we want to be”. Some husky beginner overexerts himself and let’s rip a powerful guff of organic putridness.

“That’s cool, man, your body is just making room for other, more positive energies”. Yeh right, the dirty prick just crop dusted your class, don’t praise him.

After Flick is done for the day, she sits with her cat and blogs about which foods she reckons make people defecate badly. “Who needs a TV when you have a purring kitty”, she muses while applying a Sukin face mask and watches a fellow house-leech play the pan flute and smoke DMT until he’s as cooked as a Chernobyl squirrel’s nuts.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?